


In the new world

by Fyrsil



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:00:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyrsil/pseuds/Fyrsil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ragnarok. The end of the world as we know it. Or, in fact, a time that brings kings and peasants to their knees alike. Yet is this a time that is merely an illusion of destruction manifesting fear in the hearts of many, or is it something more?</p><p>Emil grew up blind, under the care of the two witches Arthur and Vasilica, who nurtured him and helped keep his mysterious powers under control. The boy is left with the faint memory of an older brother who was snatched away from him too young.</p><p>Now, as the supposed end of the world approaches, old friend will reunite, and new friendships will ignite, if only they could stay alive to appreciate the harmony...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New beginnings

The wind tussled the man’s hair as he stood on the top of the small mountain, looking over the world as if it was his. The heavy, woollen cape was fastened unconventionally at the centre of his collar bone with a pin, the design beaten into it one of a wolf and an axe. Blue eyes surveying the land around him, he wore a slight smile on his lips; despite the struggles that the times brought and despite all the pain and death he had experienced, it was hard to beat this man into submission.

            Stepping up beside him, another man, slighter of frame, hair longer and smooth like a woman’s. His skin shone pale in the dull afternoon lighting and his eyes were paler, mistier as if concealing secrets beyond imagination. Compared to his regally dressed companion, his attire was more modest, the reds of his companion cooled by the blues and greys he slung over his shoulders. The cloak was secured at his left shoulder to allow ease of access to the sword attached at his hip, and the pin that held it was one of a simple ring and nail, a style common yet plain.

            The only remarkable features he bore were his own unearthly face and the cross clip pinning back a lock of hair to the left of his head. Some may say it was a sign of the forbidden Christian religion for the resemblance it had to the Christ cross, but many assumed correctly that it’s roots were Norse pagan.

            “Two more day’s travel, Lukas,” the first man said, turning back to grin widely and fondly at his companion.

            Lukas’ eyes scanned the land rolled out before him critically, then flicked up at the sky. “That mayn’t be so, Matthias. The clouds are dark,” he said. His voice was airy and musical as if constantly in a daze. “There will be a storm any day now. It could extend our time to three.”

            “Nonsense!” Matthias protested. The large man slung an arm round Lukas’ unwilling shoulders. He grabbed the slim frame and turned it so that they faced the world once more, side by side, the wind causing their eyes to water and their hair to dance round their heads, “we’ll make it. We made it this far, didn’t we? We are almost there.”

            Lukas hummed, the sound indistinguishable between assent and scepticism. But Matthias was used to the mysterious nature of the one he travelled with and bore it no mind, steeling his shoulders in optimism. “Lets go, let’s find a safe place, huh?” Matthias said, determined yet subdued, quietened by the thought of that what they were running from. His voice was softened out of an uncharacteristic consideration of the other man’s past.

            Finally, Lukas turned to him in turn and tilted his head in thought. It was when he sighed and allowed the slight up-tilt of his lips that Matthias fully relaxed. “A safe place sounds good, Matthias. Let’s go find it.”

            The duo abandoned the top of the world and made their way down a winding, overgrown path known only by few, trekking across the land made up of ancient forests and wide open plains of tough, harsh grasses that could withstand the harsh winter of the north. Not once did either of then stumble or shiver, made resilient to the unforgiving terrain that they had lived in through years of experience and necessity to survival. In the same way, neither stopped to complain of lack of food, or the fact that their ribs were beginning to show after such extended excursion and lack of resources.

            Of course, the land had once provided an abundance of material for those who respected and loved it. The gods had looked down on their playthings fondly, caring for them as one would their most prized hunting dog. But even the strongest, most valuable hound must be killed and eaten if the rabbits had long ran out, and in a similar way, the gods had abandoned earth and humanity in such testing times of immortal wars that affected far more than the Gods themselves.

            Every creature and every tree feared for its life. Every rock and stream never knew its last day. Even the trolls and the Nøkken and all the supernatural beings had never dreamed of such hardship. Not so soon, not when Ragnarok was told to be a far away event...

            By the time they made it to the next forest, the sun had sunk enough for Matthias to glance around slightly nervously, well aware of what creatures came out at night, and uneager to confront them. The shadows were cast between the trees, who whispered amongst themselves, hostile to the outsider who stepped so heavily with little regard to the ground that had nurtured him from childhood. It was well time to make shelter, and the positioning was good, a small stream running fifty or so metres from where they were, the small opening just the right size for a small sleeping shelter for two.

            Matthias stopped, and Lukas with him, knowing before the man opened his mouth why their journey had halted and giving his silent assent in the flicker of approval in his eyes. Words were not needed. The exchanges between them were far and few between, for one’s survival depended on clear thought that didn’t stray to regard those around you, and as if in union they began the familiar process of Matthias scavenging for fallen branches as the brunt of the operation and Lukas assembling the shelter with fine and beautiful skill, building it quickly and efficiently so that even if the skies opened they wouldn’t have to fear the rain.

            The area Matthias observed as he went about the repetitive task was no different to any other woodland. The tall man found his physical ability superior to the trials of the environment, and had not problem lifting and carrying branches most even of his size and stature would struggle with. Everything was normal… The uneasy feeling that made him glance here and there was. Unexplained and was quickly overlooked and ignored. It was the way in which the man worked. He wasn’t a spiritual soul and relied on material and sight to explain the world around him.

            Returning to his companion the final time, setting down gentler than usual the armful of moss and undergrowth he had collected as insulation for the structure, he finally allowed his frame to collapse and muscles to rest, with a complete disregard to any dignity that he may previously have had.

            “Oi, Lukas, you still have those nuts we collected a few days back?” He called to the man patiently finishing off the shelter. Looking up from his kneeling position, Lukas regarded him with a judgemental stare.

            “I do, but we don’t know when food will next be available. It would be best to save them.”

            “You said ration before,” the whine coming from the man’s mouth sounding far more juvenile than was dignified for a man of his status, “and ration doesn’t mean starve.” He allowed his face to remain blanc for a second before breaking into a grin, knowing, even as the other man was braiding the grass as matting as if ignoring the other, that he had already given in to his pleas.

            Proving his suspicion correct, once Lukas was finished he strode briskly to the prone man and threw a small sack made from a boar’s bladder into Matthias’ lap, looking down upon him sternly, like a mother. “Only eat two,” the smaller man ordered, pointing a finger in a vain attempt of authority.

            “Of course, my fair maiden, and two for you too,” Matthias jested, snorting at Lukas’ comically offended expression, his usually stone-like face opening as his eyes widened prettily and mouth pouting in a rare show of offence. It was with a huff that the other man set himself down next to Matthias, careful to fold his cloak beneath his seat and crossing his legs primly.

            Matthias didn’t need to voice his opinion of Lukas’ femininity, and if he had he would surely have ended up with bruises round his neck from his companion’s idea of justice.

            More time passed, the sun’s setting marking when the world wished for them to sleep. The shelter made for the safely and efficiency that they needed was small and cramped, with room only for the two to become knotted uncomfortably in one another. Neither was happy with the forced intimacy, but heat preservation when fires were so dangerous in those times made it an unfortunate fact of survival that they must abide by.

            Matthias was out like a smothered candle, his body strong yet endurance lacking, while Lukas was left for his mind to toss and turn as his body could not. The man was just as exhausted as his companion, but sleep had always evaded him since childhood, and with the past events it only gave him more for his mind to unravel. Lukas shivered, hearing the distant howl of a lone wolf far in the distance, and an owl hoot closer. All these animals… All these hidden omens…

            The sleep that came to him was rough and unrestful. Lukas dreamt that he was standing outside the shelter looking through the small, obscure entrance onto the sleeping faces of his own and Matthias, illuminated in the moonlight. The grasses and bushes rustled, all wildlife silent as if in waiting.

            It was but a whisper that came to him hearing that made him spin on his heel, only just in time to catch the emergence of two foreign people stepping into the clearing with a sense of purpose too great for them not to know of the two men’s sleeping presence. Unusually, it was their faces, not their hair, caked in red river clay, making their skin seem earthy and rough while the natural fibres of their hair fell over their eyes, cut short unlike many who lived in the wild.

            The clothing they wore was undyed and poorly woven, and much of it animal skin rather than wool or linen. A hare’s caracas hung at the hip of the smaller one, swinging with each step he took closer to the shelter that had failed to hide the two traveller’s presence, while the taller held a long metal dagger that even in the darkness was obviously well cared for and recently sharpened.

            Lukas had to wake up. He had to wake Matthias! These people would probably kill them, consume their carcasses and offer their picked-dry bones their own pagan gods. He had to wake up, he had to wake up, he-

            Jolting from sleep, Lukas scrambled to his feet with a disregard to the shelter, the sticks breaking and collapsing as he stood. The area was empty; the dream must have been a foreshadowing, not an out of body experience though Lukas knew both well. Matthias didn’t complain as his sleep was disturbed rudely, too frightened and trusting of Lukas’ perception of impending danger to do anything but gasp and rise achingly to his feet, shaky from the last grasps of sleep but alert enough to put a hand to his sword.

            “No weapons,” Lukas ordered, then a simple instruction, “run.”

            And run they did. Abandoning the fallen shelter, the two darted into the forest, and Lukas was vaguely aware of the sounds of diligent pursuit. An arrow embedded itself in a nearby tree and Lukas jolted to the side, knocking Matthias out of the way as another flew where his companion’s head had been. The two rolled on the floor, not feeling the bruising roots and thorns embedding themselves into their skin as they were up and on the run again, weaving their way this time as to make life harder for the archer.

            The forest passed as a blur, but Lukas could feel their struggle’s futility. The smaller of their aggressors had a small bow which he must be using to force their escape route to lengthen and wind like a labyrinth round the trees, and while they were distracted the large one took advantage of his massive size to catch up relatively easily and throw a small throwing knife with astounding accuracy into Matthias’ calf, immediately taking down the man.

            As his leg was rendered useless, Matthias rolled on the forest floor, hitting his head on several prominent roots which made him dizzy, but he wasn’t too disorientated as to overlook the fact that Lukas had stopped in apparent worry and unexpected loyalty.

            “Go Luka-“ Matthias was swiftly cut off as the smaller man’s boot hit his head, instantly knocking him unconscious. Lukas, his slender frame trembling not with fear but with fury, was in a standoff with the two wild men. They stood tall and proud and threatening, the archer with a foot placed possessively upon Matthias’ unmoving shoulder, and the one who had brought his companion down several metres ahead, another knife pinched deftly between thick, weathered fingers, ready, no doubt, to bring Lukas down forcefully if the need presented itself.

            Seeing no alternative, Lukas chose to resolve himself to this fate than to end up with a knife in his back like a coward. He fumbled with the buckle at his hip, sending the belt that held anything of use or aggression falling to the ground, and he kicked it to the taller one while simultaneously raising his hands.

            The whites of their eyes shone a stark contrast against the brown of their Earth masks. The tall one made no move to approach Lukas; it was the archer who moved from Matthias’ prone form to tend to their new prisoner, purposefully taking rawhide bindings from a small sack slung from his own belt and circling Lukas to tie his hand’s tightly behind his back, the twine biting into the unprotected bones of his wrists, yet the man made no complaint, knowing fully well that these wild men were unsympathetic and dangerous.

            All the while, Lukas couldn’t help but wonder if they were simply keeping him alive so that his flesh would be fresh enough for when the hunger became too great, and even the small game of the native forest had depleted. While the tall one slung the unconscious Matthias over a broad shoulder, Lukas was led by the death grip of the archer, whose bow was slung diagonally across one shoulder as he followed his parter, winding through the forest maze.

            They didn’t walk for long. The two men halted at a seemingly unvarying part of the forest. Blindfolds were tied round Lukas’ and even the unconscious Matthias’ eyes so that Lukas could hear only his own catching breath. Continuing on for a while, they stayed once again, and Lukas was secured beside Matthias, both with their backs to a tree. Lukas could hear the soft communication of the forest dwellers in some foreign language, the shuffling of leaves as they moved around the opening. The rag tied round his eyes was scratchy and the loss of sight made him uneasy… But that was unfair. There were people who lived constantly without their sight and it wasn’t his place to complain.

            The man was thrown from the present rudely without warning. His abandoned body sank lifeless in the present, and suddenly he was standing in the hall of a small stone castle. The tapestry was a familiar decoration, telling the stories of his childhood, tales that had once set his young imagination aflame with wonder. Sitting upon a thrown at the head of the hall, a weathered hand resting on the head of his young son; the king and his prince awaited whomever had called to disturb them.

            Lukas waited too as he saw a modest figure led into the room voluntarily. The mousy woman bowed her head, lowering herself into a low, humble curtsey so that the rough fabric of her dress brushed the floor.

            “Raise,” the king ordered, not yet decided of his feelings of her indrudance.

            “I’m Ragna, my Lord,” she started quietly, “a servant in the kitchens. I come asking for your mercy of my son.”

            “Lukas?” The king asked with moderate surprise. The polite young boy aged only two years than his own son of twelve was already an asset to the castle and a reliable friend to his boy. Why he would need to be handing out mercy to such a boy was beyond thought and it seemed so unlikely that Lukas would ever do something to displease his majesty.

            The question seemed to distress the woman further as she shook her head silently. Then, reluctantly; unwillingly, she drew her arms from beneath her cloak to revel a sleeping, tiny babe, skin unnaturally pale and unmarred but for a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks that looked like each had been placed as a constellation.

            The king’s breath caught looking upon the sleeping form, “how can this be?” He demanded, “You have not bore child for years.”

            “It is true!” The woman cried suddenly, “but I have had dreams, my lord, terrible, wonderful dreams. The Gods have spoken, they have told me that the end of the world is near. They told me that when the moon shines at it’s brightest I must go into the forest and let myself be lead by my heart, where I shall find our only hope and our only demise… Well, I obeyed, and I found him lying there naked and uncrying. My son…”

            The man’s eyes bore down at the pathetic picture of the distraught of the woman hunched before him. “Our only demise?” He pondered. The child at his side who had formerly been passive suddenly moved from where he rested towards the woman.

            But it wasn’t her he was interested in, but the small human life she held in her arms. He snatched it without asking, and powerless to stop him the woman allowed him with only an anxious gasp and the clutching of her own empty hands. “He is light, like a feather!” the boy wondered, “and not ugly, like other babies.”

            “Matthias,” the King warned his son.

            “No, father, look!” Matthias insisted and he brought the baby to the king. The man stared down at the innocent face, brow creasing uneasily. Matthias’ face was clear and unworried, ever oblivious to the emotion of the situation

            “Our only demise, the woman says?” The King asked again, the question aimed at no one at particular. Standing where he is, Lukas wanted to shout out that the child was their only hope as well, but this was no tangible, audible form he possessed and he had long given up trying to communicate with those around him. A memory knows no change but of delusion, after all. He knows what will happen.

            A moment of silence surrounded them all. Then, “I want it dead.” The king, rising slowly, predatorily, from his throne, “I want to see that creature dead. It is one of destruction; barely human.”

            “No!” Lukas’ mother cried out, finding restraining hands of the reluctant guards on her as he tried in vain to retrieve her baby, “no, my lord, please! You can’t do this!”

            “I can do what I like!” The king’s voice boomed, subduing her weak attempts, them, quieter, “Matthias, give me that child.”

            “What will you do?” His son asked wide eyed, taking a step back in fear.

            “Nothing that you must know of right now. Hand it over.”

            Matthias hesitated, glancing round the hall before returning his gaze unwillingly to the king’s hooded blue eyes, set in cold determination. “You would kill a child?” Matthias stuttered, regarding his father with a new respect, not one of love and fatherly connection but one of the fearful respect one learns to have of their enemies.

            “The weak and the untrustworthy are better off dead. I wish you could have found out another way, my son, but the truth calls at an earlier time than of comfort, I see. Give it to me.”

            Another step back, then another. The boy wasn’t stepping for the door, the only logical exit, but towards one of the tapestries instead. As the king advanced, his guards were set on the ready as well. “This is Lukas’ brother, father, how could you do this?” Matthias asked, then turned on his heal without another word and disappeared behind the heavy tapestry like a rat.

            Unbeknownst to most, a trap door lay hidden behind that tapestry, unknown but to the few lucky servants who had the guts about them to explore the castle, and to the king himself. It led to the kitchens, a shortcut to keep food hot for the king. Lukas happened to be one of these servants, the boy slipping into every nook and cranny in pursuit of adventure, and through him Matthias gained his knowledge.

            “By the gods, after them!” The king ordered, and the guards struggled with the tapestry and the door locked from the other side, gaining Matthias the precious time he needed to dart through the passage until the light of the kitchen, bustling with afternoon work, appeared. The bang of the door being knocked from its hinges echoed down the passage, only driving the boy to run faster, cradle the babe in his arms tighter.

            Appearing in the open room, he ducked and pushed the servants aside to the kitchen servant’s quarters. The rooms were small and dark and smelled of wood, but it was a familiar atmosphere in which the King’s son had spent many years playing with his lowly friends. It was in one of these rooms he found Lukas, sat studying, spring to his feet as the boy entered.

            “Matthias? Wha-“

            He was cut off as the other boy hurriedly explained the King’s threat, offering Lukas a sight of the boy in his arms. It was evident that his friend had had no prior knowledge of his brother’s existence, but much the quick thinker, intelligent beyond his mere ten years, Lukas quickly tensed in understanding and bustled to a draw where he shoved a few small nothings into his hunting bag, strapping the dagger he had been given in celebration of his birthday round his waist.

            “I’m going to go. You should-“

            “I’m coming with you,” Matthias insisted, holding the baby protectively in his arms, “I’m stronger than you, and the guards can’t hurt you if you’re with me.”

            Lukas shot his friend a slightly disbelieving look, struggling to comprehend the boy’s naïvety of the cruelty of the world, but sighed in acceptance and gave Matthias a look that told him that his friend was truly grateful. With little time to spare, they disappeared from the castle through the kitchen’s back entrance, knowing that the guards would soon force the staff to speak and betray their escape.

            There were little places to hide in the cultivated rye grain fields that surrounded both the castle and the village, the forest having retreated to a safe distance from the humans. Beyond a young hill, a tightly packed village bustled and it was towards the people and crowds that they headed in hope of loosing themselves in the chaos of it all. Matthias was without cloak, but the chilling spring wind left him refreshed if anything, having always been able to withstand a harsher climate then most. Plus the adrenaline of betraying his father and the threat of being caught forced him into an unfeeling state.

            Lukas lagged behind, breathing ragged. As a mere kitchen hand, the most exhilaration he’d had in his childhood was the wrestling matches he’d had with Matthias, the friendly play fights that had done a little to aid the development of his otherwise willowy frame. Compared to the already powerful legs Matthias had earned from hours running, climbing, horse riding and sparring, his own did little to propel him onward. Eventually, Matthias cradled the baby, still sleeping, in the nook of his elbow, reaching his other hand back to take Lukas’ and pulled his younger friend forward, eager to outrun the guards who were likely saddling horses to pursue the three.

            “Where should we go?” Matthias asked at a loss once they reached the village. Ever the protected prince boy, he hadn’t been allowed amongst the common people many times in his life and the place was strange and slightly daunting, even if he was reluctant to admit it.

            “I… Through the alleys,” Lukas decided, thinking quickly. Hopefully they would be able to wind their way in an untraceable maze and make it out the other side where… Where they would be two boys faced with an endless forest, a newborn babe to mother and a world of enemies to survive.

            “Lets go!” And with that Matthias had darted forward pulling Lukas behind him, the prince’s rich clothing contrasting starkly to the dully dyed wool and linen of the poor, but as soon as any common folk noticed the difference he had disappeared as fast as he came. The two boys struggled in the unfamiliar setting, stumbling over mislaid tools and buckets and unsure of where was forward and where was back.

            It was when the clattering of hooves on the cobblestone and the shouting of authoritative men sounded that they paused to share a panicked look.

            “Quick,” Lukas ordered, grabbing his friend’s sleeve and trying to drag him down a deserted alley.

            Matthias stood fast. “No Lukas, they’ll find me eventually…” He glanced round skittishly, “I’ll distract them, I won’t speak no matter what they do or say, I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

            “No Matthias,” Lukas said in horror, “they’ll-“

            “They won’t kill me. They can’t hurt me badly, I’m the only prince and they need me.”

            “But…” Lukas’ eyes welled with unfamiliar tears, “I’ll be alone.”

            Matthias let out a shaky breath, just as scared as Lukas was. “You’ll have your brother,” He said, taking the baby and handing it to the younger, who reached his arms out, holding the infant tight to his chest, a protective hand resting on his head.

            “We’ll never see each other again,” Lukas pointed out quietly, his trembling voice barely audible. It had finally struck him that without his mother, he was alone in the world. Without Matthias, he was hopeless in the world. It was far too much for a child to bear.

            “I know,” Matthias’ lower lip trembled. Then, the call of one of his father’s men shook him from his miserable daze and he turned towards the noise. “Stay alive Lukas, thank you for being my only friend.” And with that, the king’s son was gone, disappeared into the bustle of the main street. Lukas stood alone for a moment before regarding the weight in his arms. The baby squirmed, waking up, delicate mouth opening in a small cry.

            “Don’t cry, baby,” Lukas pleaded, crouching down behind a barrel.

            Hearing the other’s voice, the baby stopped the sound, tutting his mouth as if in disapproval. It frowned, turned its head slightly, then opened its eyes for the very first time, and Lukas gasped. Unlike the blue-grey of most newborns, his eyes shone a deep, vivid violet purple colour, as if they held the universe within them. His pupils fixed momentarily on Lukas’ wide, blue eyes, then closed again, the baby sighing as if in elderly disappointment.

            Not having the time to contemplate his brother’s strange behaviour, Lukas shifted to raise to his aching feet, but was stopped by the presence of someone behind him. The boy froze. It could be a rapist, a murderer, a thief… In an abandoned, dirty alley like this he was certain whoever it was their intentions weren’t pure.

            “You on the run from those kingsmen?” The stranger asked, his voice, unlike the harsh accent of many villagemen, strangely lucid and varying like a song, “Don’t turn around,” he said as an afterthought as Lukas began to twist.

            “What’s it to you?”

            “That depends on the answer.”

            Lukas trembled. He felt as if whatever he said he would end up with the stranger’s dagger in his back, dead and forgotten in a dirty alley at such a young age. But, he supposed, if he didn’t answer at all it was almost certain the man would kill him, so he settled with the truth.

            “They will kill me if they find me,” he answered.

            The man hummed in understanding. “And what would someone as young as yourself, and that baby in your arms – don’t try to hide it from me – have done to anger the king?”

            “The baby is prophesied to bring either great success or great loss. The king wants him dead, but he is my brother, and he has done nothing wrong, please-“

            “I’m not going to kill you,” the stranger reassured him, and at those words Lukas almost relaxed. Almost. But before he was put totally at ease there was a knife at his throat and another man, one who had managed to appear seemingly out of nowhere, had snatched the baby from is arms, placing a hand firmly over its face. The boy began to cry as his face was prodded, but at a gentle word fell silent again. Like magic.

            “It it the one,” the man announced to his partner. The hood of his cloak obscured his face and hair so that all that Lukas could make out in his terror was the glinting emerald of his eyes.

            “And the older boy?” The one with the knife to his throat asked.

            The man holding Lukas’ brother fixed a sharp gaze on him, and it felt to Lukas that the man could see right through all his defences and

rinto his soul. They remained eyes locked like that until the man finally released him from his stare.

            “He is young, and pure. His mind is vast and can hold much knowledge. But he holds magic that is unlike ours, more northern and wild. It would be wise for us to take this one as well, to train and to serve as the last family the blessed one Emil has.”

            Lukas wanted to speak but found words escaped him. He opened his mouth, trying to ask what was going on, were they safe? But at a mere touch and a whispered word, he felt his eyes close and his consciousness shift so that the boy fell asleep.

 

Lukas woke from the dream with a gasp. His eyes were as blind as his baby brother’s, and a quick attempt to roll his shoulders reminded him that he was bound uncomfortably with his back to a tree, not quite a sapling but nowhere near to the fully-grown oak that it would grow to be. Beside him, he heard Matthias shuffle.

            “Luke, you awake?” The man asked.

            “Yes,” Lukas replied, “how long has it been?”

            “Only half an hour since I woke up. They gave me water, but couldn’t wake you, which seemed to worry them. I didn’t tell them about…”

            “Good. Thank you,” Lukas said, secretly relieved that his secret hadn’t been spilled. Feeling the scratch at his throat, it became obvious to him the effects of not having drank water for long, but didn’t complain expecting nothing but hostility from the strangers. He continued, feeling Matthias’ worry for him and hating it, “I dreamt of when we escaped with Emil as a baby.”

            “Oh,” Matthias said, subdued, and the guilt and awkwardness rolling off the man was tangible. Being reminded of times when the had had the intimacy that he so evidently craved at the age he was now was painful for the man, and it served even better as a reminder of what had happened – what he’d done – to ruin it and loose Lukas’ trust forever.

            Lukas thought about saying something, but was interrupted by a more distant voice, “Oh! The small one’s awake!” It called and relaxed footsteps towards him caused Lukas to tense. “I thought you might be thirsty like your companion, but you wouldn’t wake,” the voice admitted, crouching down beside him. He heard the stopper on a waterskin being popped and soon there was water on his lips that he eagerly drank despite himself.

            “Good, you were thirsty,” the other man said, allowing him to drink until he turned away, more than satisfied. The sounds of fumbling, and then the man appeared to still. Lukas shifted. He could feel eyes observing him, observing _into_ him as if they held more power than an ordinary man. “Now that you’re awake, we can finally get some questions answered.”

            “Yeah, that would be great,” Matthias spat, “like why you attacked us, why you kidnapped us, and why you are acting-“

            “Quiet,” a deep voice ordered. The tall, powerful one. Matthias obeyed him, though Lukas could feel the tension in his companion’s body, the bottled up anger that was desperate to explode and cause harm to their enemies.

            “All in due time,” the one in front of Lukas reminded, not unkindly. There seemed to be a few seconds silent communication between their two captors, and then Lukas found hands at the back of his head, fumbling with the knot of the scratchy blindfold until he could finally see as it was removed. Blinking away the early morning light and wincing at how it hurt his head, his eyes scanned their surroundings.

            An opening, much like the one they had set down camp in, but a brief look that the constructions told him that this was a more permanent residence, the roundhouse structure carefully constructed and a fire burning in the middle of it, smoke appearing through the hole in the middle. A stream ran close by, and the caracas of a deer was slung from a branch, ready for skinning. Lukas wondered how they had managed to capture a deer when he and Matthias struggled to find a meal larger than a rabbit.

            “You don’t know how to get here, and you won’t know how to get away,” the one in front of Lukas said sternly, “so we trust you enough to remove your blindfolds. But other than that, you remain the enemy of the native forest and we can trust you with no more.”

            “I didn’t expect any more. I expected less from savages like you,” Matthias growled, and the tall figure standing above him fixed him with a heavy glare that insinuated if he insulted them once more he would find himself with several broken ribs at best.

            Ignoring Matthias’ pride, the shorter one took a seat beside where Lukas was tied. “Why were you in this forest?” He asked first, directing the question at Lukas.

            “We are passing through,” Lukas explained, “we are headed for a village the other side of here.”

            “A village? Are you asylum seekers? Criminals?” He asked.

            “We seek a place away from the realms of King Calder. We have not made well with him over the years,” Matthias said, eager to contribute to the conversation.

            The smaller man considered this. “We have also not made well with the King, he is not of our favour, not after all he has done to our home and forest. But… Although you speak the truth, you are not telling the _whole_ truth, no?” Without warning, Lukas felt the man’s mind prodding at his thoughts, and in discomfort at the intrusion he struggles and squirmed in his binds. Matthias was gritting his teeth, nails digging into the bark of the tree behind them and it was evident he was receiving the same treatment.

            “Stop!” The man protested, “my mind is my own. This is-“ And like that the intrusion stopped and the smaller captor stood up beside the larger, glancing at the man whose disturbed gaze matched his. At their feet, Matthias was slumped and unguarded, jaw squared at the mental pain of his resistance and eyes unwillingly watering. Lukas was breathless also, but had escaped the effects of having his mind penetrated through mental powers of his own.

            “We are going to speak now,” the archer said. His voice was unreadable, even to Lukas. With that, the two left them, walking to the other side of the clearing and entering the roundhouse, the larger holding the deerskin entrance flap up for his partner.

            “Are y-you okay?” Matthias stuttered, trying to regain control over his breath.

            “Yes,” Lukas answered, not explaining how this was, though he knew his companion would be itching with curiosity.

            “So… What do we do now?”

            “They know about your past, I assume,” Lukas stated, twisting to look at the man beside him.

            “Indeed,” Matthias let out a defeated sigh, “they will surely kill us.”

            “They know of your betrayal as well, though?”

            “I suppose… But it is the mind of most of this land that blood is thicker than water, even if that same blood fought agains itself.”

            “You’re speak as a poet,” Lukas jibed gently, coaxing a smile from his companion, “it does’t suit you to sound intelligent.”

            “Excuse me!” Matthias protested in mock offence, “anyway, I refuse to have gotten this far only to be killed by a couple of forest dwellers smeared in dirt. How do we escape?”

            Reverting to seriousness, Lukas sighed, “their power was more than simple forest dwellers, their power was strong enough to breach the first layer of my memory before I could fight it off. That is not something to be taken lightly.”

            “True… But regardless we can’t stay.”

            “I agree, but for now we have no choice,” Lukas insisted, “Watch what happens next and when the opportunity present we take out leave then. I refuse to die and abandon my responsibility.” The man’s voice had darkened as he contemplated the effects his death would have.

            “Lukas,” Matthias said sadly, voice more gentle than it usually was, “you can’t blame yourself for everything.”

            “No,” Lukas mused, “but I can try.”

 


	2. Run

Vasilica and Arthur drew their cloaks around them against the brunt of the storm winds. The sky had not yet opened but the air was already churning as a forewarning of the harsh, unforgiving hours ahead of them. And they were far from protection on the narrow path of a vast, steep mountain, probably at the greatest risk of anyone for tens of miles around. Yet they knew no fear.

            Contrasting to the men’s calm demeanours, the boy who travelled with then clutched both men’s hands desperately, terrified of slipping and falling to his death, or being snatched by the winds of the angry gods and never feeling the sunlight again. His white hair whipped round his head like a halo, nose and cheeks ruddy from the biting cold and wind. He didn’t speak, but focused on breathing through the abrasive air, focused on detecting the first drops or rain or snow that would signal the beginning of his hell.

            His guardians adjusted their grips on each of his hands, drawing the boy closer and directing him to the furthest point from the cliff. Opening their consciousness’s, they were swiftly zeroing in on the cave that would offer protecting from the onsetting weather. They were near. Then the toil of the day would be over.

            “There,” Arthur pointed to the dark opening in the mountain not fifteen metres from them. They made their way, hurrying faster as the skies began to leak and the rain shards bit into their cheeks like stones.

            Finally, after the day’s long, dragged out toil, they had arrived. They were safe.

            The boy sank down, chocking on terrified sobs as Vasilica held his weak frame close, arms wrapped round him protectively as Arthur muttered old Latin words that prevented the rain and wind entrance to their sanctuary. Casting a cautious glance round the space, Arthur was relieved to see that the cave was deep and substantial, not damp and uninviting like many in the lands.

            “The storm will pass not too far from now, but it will be violent. Those who pursue us will be caught in the open; it is our best hope that many of them are lost to the gods,” Arthur pondered.

            “Indeed,” Vasilica agreed vigorously, “anyone who intends to harm this boy deserves to meet their fate.” The boy quietened in his embrace, ragged breath smoothing out peacefully, and he reached up a pale, still shaking hand to dash away the wetness on his cheeks.

            “Don’t fall asleep yet, pumpkin, you still have to take your medicine,” Arthur reminded the boy, and he jolted and wrinkled his nose in displeasure, whether it be at the embarrassing nickname for a boy of thirteen or the thought of having to take the bitter herbal mixture wasn’t clear.

            “Fine,” he said, shifting up into a sitting position. As Arthur fumbled with his bag for the herb pouch, the boy cast a nervous tilt of the head towards the cave’s entrance, “it’s sealed off, right? No one can find us?”

            “Oh Emil,” Vasilica chided, “we aren’t that old you know; we don’t forget such important things. And it is the most important think in the world for us to keep you safe.”

            Blushing, Emil muttered his thanks, before shuffling to where he heard Arthur standing, fingers tracing a pattern on the cave’s floor as a means to detect any barrier of obstacle, luckily finding the floor clear and smooth. Arthur took his seat beside the boy, handing him a dried and compact tablet of herbs that was too big to swallow whole, forcing the poor thing to have to endure the unpleasant process of chewing it down every day. The thing tasted vile.

            Having downed it, Emil reached out a hand for water, washing away the taste as thoroughly as possible. Then, with a content sigh, feeling safe in the presence of the two brave, powerful men who protected and watched over him, he curled on his side, head resting in Vasilica’s lap and it wasn’t long before he fell into a deep slumber, cleansing himself of the fright and tension of the day’s flee.

            Having the privacy of only themselves being awake, Arthur and Vasilica exchanged a solemn glance. Outside, thunder rumbled and Emil stirred in Vasilica’s lap, stilling as the man rested a hand on his head, absent-mindedly brushing his fingers gently through his hair.

            “How realistic is escape?” Vasilica asked at almost a whisper, “the trees and night creatures tell me the King had upped his forces, employed men of equal magic to hunt us down. I think he finally realises quite how close we are to this boy’s fate, and thus the fate of the land.”

            “It is true,” Arthur confirmed. “The spirits tell me so.” The man was usually guarded about his worry, even in front of his friend of decades, but now the uncertainty shone painfully clear in his eyes.

            “What do we do?” Vasilica asked, worrying his lip with a sharp fang. Arthur worried he would draw blood.

            “We do all that we can to protect Emil. He is not only our future, but I view him as my own child after all these years. It has become so much more personal, dammit…” He brought a fist down uselessly on the stone floor.

            “We must return him to the only one who stands a true chance of protecting and guiding him,” Vasilica suggested.

            “You can’t be saying… No!” Arthur protested loudly, then, seeing he had disturbed the peace unfairly, continued on quieter, “no, you _know_ his brother is dead, and if not then festering in one of the king’s dungeons.”

            “But the prophecy-”

            “If the prophecy can be mistaken once, then is can be mistaken again. The gods cannot be eternally right.”

            Vasilica, uneasy at the prospect of a disagreement, was reluctantly silenced. He looked down at Emil, sleeping in his lap, “how can one so weak and frail save the world. He even lacks his own _sight…”_

            “What he lacks in physically is made up for with the power hidden deep inside of him. Right now it is unknown even to him, but he has the power to burst aflame in this world, and what is inside him now is but kindling. His eyes may be sightless, it is true, but his soul is far from blind.”

            Vasilica smiled. It was true. The boy held a power intangible to most in the world. It wasn’t the military power of the king, nor the physical power of a soldier. It wasn’t even the magical power that he and Arthur were gifted with but something much older, even than magic. An energy that existed as early as the earth was born; he held it, his brother had held it to an extent.

            Things would be okay. The gods had foreseen this and their path was already laid for them.

 

* * *

 

As the sun rose, Emil rose with it, before his guardians stirred. The boy uncurled himself from Vasilica, tugging a cloak round his shoulders to ward off the morning chill. During the night, the storm must have ceased as the world it left behind was one fresh and moist, the delicate sound of water running off the leaves of the trees on the mountain side echoing through the mist that had settled.

            Feeling for Arthur’s bag, he downed a handful of nuts as a morning meal, stomach protesting at the small quantity, then he took a conservative gulf of chilled water. The fear from the previous night had left him to be replaced by a mindless sense of direction, a state of trance almost – something he had never experienced before, but he felt the irrefutable urge to drop whatever he was doing and walk where his soul told him to.

            And so he went.

            The boy made his way on frail legs, exiting the cave, all fear of the cliffs edge leaving him. Any other time he surely would have perished, his blindness becoming his killer as he headed straight to the steep drop that would splatter his innards on the rocks blow should he fall. For whatever reason, that day was different, and he strode confidently, legs moving without mind’s instruction, following the narrow, dangerous path downwards, winding his way back and forth across the mountain side in a meticulous decent.

            He felt not the cold nor the wind, nor the aching fatigue in his legs. The boy felt no worry for those he left behind and the separation he had caused, or the fact that he was without food or tool, blind and as helpless as a babe in the unforgiving Northern terrain. He felt nothing at all, and his state could barely be called conscious, such as it wasn’t the nature of he to act without thinking.

            And, deny it as he would, he relied heavily on the two witches for survival and always had. To leave them in the middle of the lost lands, pursued by men ordered to capture him was possibly the most dangerous act he had performed in a long time.

            It took several hours to reach the bottom of the mountain. The forest ahead was large and the undergrowth impenetrable if one didn’t know the tracks of the deer and large animals that travelled amongst the mess of trees. Emil did. At least, in his trance-like state he did, as his legs continued onwards and his mind remained half conscious, pushing aside branches that got in his way, somehow knowing they were there without seeing them.

            A cry woke him from his daze. Startled into reality, Emil froze, taking in his situation. He felt the coolness of nature around him and the rustling of the trees was far more encompassing than if he was still safe in the cave. Not knowing how or when he got to the low altitude forest, the boy began shaking and breathing raggedly, hands reaching out to make sight of his environment.

            The cry sounded again, and he recognised the voice. Vasilica. His wonderful, kind, all-powerful guardian was making such a piercing sound of anguish that sent a chill down the young one’s spine and it only continued as if the trader in magic was being caused prolonged pain. There was no sound from Arthur, and disorientated as he was Emil called the man, hoping in vain that it was he who had moved him and he would be close by.

            There was no answer to his shaky, high voice. Emil was alone and helpless, forced to endure the sound of his guardian’s agony, doubtless suffered because he had been protecting the boy the king was seeking out.

            “No, n-no…” Emil muttered, pressing his hands to his ears in attempt to stop the piercing screams, “please… Help me…” Falling to his knees, he sobbed and cried out into the morning, shaking his head as if that would rid him of his crushing pain and terror. He was going to die. He was sure of it. All the boy could do was collapse in the dirt and curl in his knees to his chest, fisting his snowy hair and bearing the white hot panic that invaded every area of his being. His mind felt like someone was sticking needles into it and then…

            Emil found himself standing by the river near the cottage of his childhood, the afternoon sun warming his skin. Disorientated, but no longer in the state of panic he had been in moments ago, he leaned into the heat, a familiar smile playing on his lips. The birds chirped in the trees above him, the wind rustled the branches like music; this was home, this was safety.

            “Arthur!” A young voice called out excitedly, and it took him a moment to realise it as his own of several years younger, by the sound of it seven or eight. To his right, light footsteps made their way towards the cottage where Arthur and Vasilica were working on a healing potion for an elderly lady they had known for several years, who recently complained of an infection in her family that had already killed her daughter’s baby.

            “Arthur, Vasilica, look at what I made!” His young self chattered excitedly, offering a crudely whittled wooden object to the men, who looked up with tired yet fond smiles.

            “Pass it,” Vasilica encouraged and the boy offered him the gift with a bright grin, “hmm, now what kind of bird is this?”

            “It’s an owl, see?” Emil pushed proudly, “I even carved feathers!” 

            “The beak is far too big, and a strange shape. Its body is too fat as well,” Arthur, ever the critic, observed. Vasilica and Emil pouted in unison, similar in manner despite the age gap.

            “Come now Arthur, Emil shows promise now, right? And the feathers are good,” Vasilica protested.

            “No,” Emil said, folding stubby arms over his chest, “it isn’t an owl, actually, I take it back. It is a new bird, and I’m going to make it real one day.”

            Arthur smiled fondly, and Vasilica laughed at the boy’s stubborn nature, much like his brother. “And what is this bird called then?” Vasilica asked, playing along.

            “It’s a... Um...” Emil stalled, “it’s a puffin! Yes! Arthur, Vassy, can we make the puffin real one day?”

            “Where did you get such a silly name from child,” Arthur asked, though the cheeriness in his voice was unmissable. He then sighed, “one day, if you are a good boy growing up and become kind and strong like your brother, we can all make a live puffin bird, yes?”

            “We’ll need all four of us to make such a silly thing,” Vasilica giggled, “I’m up for it!”

            “Good,” Arthur said, “now Emil, why don’t you go collect some herbs for the soup tonight. It’s winter soup, so you remember the feel of the plants used in it right?”

            “Yes of course!” Emil said, running carelessly from the kitchen, only pausing to snag his small satchel from a hook beside the door, and hopping expertly down the steps. His small legs took him into the forest, navigating the maze of trees as easily as one with sight would, years of living there making the terrain kind and familiar to him. The afternoon was spend searching out the select herbs Arthur had requested, making sure that he felt the leaves thoroughly to ensure they were the ones he needed. The small ones, as Arthur had explained, were always hard to tell apart.

            In fact, that lesson in itself had been pleasantly amusing, and Emil regarded the memory fondly. Arthur had blindfolded himself for the day and spent it teaching himself how to differentiate between the common plants of the region. Vasilica hadn’t been able to stop himself laughing as he saw his friend try endlessly to achieve what Emil learned in barely an hour.

            In the end, Arthur had sighed, at least if he became old and blind one day he wouldn’t starve to death. And the man seemed to have a new respect for his young charge’s ability to navigate life almost as confidently as an able-bodied child.

            Just as soon as the memory began, so it ended, but a small snippet of his younger life. The blissful life that he had lived up until only recently. Emil was calm, lying on his side with a tree root digging into his ribs. Whatever sounds there had been before the memory were silent, even the movement of the forest had stilled as if even nature itself was holding its breath.

            Struggling to an upright position, Emil frowned. The air smelled like night, and he must have slept either side of the memory for time to have travelled as far as it had. Now was the question of what to do with himself, seeing as he was alone at night and the air was chilling him to the bone.

            Thankfully, Emil wasn’t in his former daze and had knowledge over his actions, but still he felt the urge to stand and step the same direction he had been heading before. Without his sight, that instinct was really all he had, but just as much as he felt compelled to discover what was at the end of such a pull he felt an opposite sense of loyalty to Vasilica and Arthur, wherever they were.

            A part of him longed to make himself known to the king’s soldiers, if only to be reunited with his guardians. There was no definite that he would even find them again if he left now, but they had sacrificed their lives for him, the boy reminded himself, and he must honour that.

            Ignoring the night, the boy trekked onwards, oblivious to what lay at the end of his journey.

 

* * *

 

Vasilica knew only pain. It was as if his very soul had been ripped from him; in effect, part of it had, and the wound may not ever heal. He writhed helplessly on the cave’s stone floor that suddenly felt colder at the absence of Arthur and Emil. He hoped, with all his heart, that Arthur had had the sense to take the boy to safety, and that was where they were, not captured like he was in some other place.

            “Where are they?” The woman who stood over him hissed. Her hair, he saw through involuntary tears of pain, was long and straight, seemingly untouched by the storm. It was such a light blonde that it could be mistaken for the stark white of Emil’s hair, but it was thicker and straighter, length reaching over her breasts.

            “Don’t – Know-” Vasilica gasped, defiance barely making it into his agony-filled voice.

            “We’re going to try this again, vampire, and I strongly recommend you tell me what you know.”

            Vasilica was eternally grateful that he truly had no knowledge of his companion’s whereabouts; the pain was at such an unbearable intensity, her knife so close to his throat, that he was sure he would spill any secret he knew, “I promise you I don’t know. They were gone when I woke – when you came.”

            “Hmm?” She hummed in question, pausing as if in thought before flicking her knife, like a snake striking, across his face. Vasilica only knew he was harmed when he felt the warm wetness of his own blood run down his cheek and neck, pain blooming gently then increasing in intensity with every heartbeat. She then turned to one of the men who accompanied her, “have you found trace of the boy or the man?”

            “Not that of a man, my lady, but there are small clues of the passing of a boy headed down the Eastward side of the mountain.”

            The woman’s grin was twisted and predatory. Flicking her attention back to the man beneath her she drew pretty pink lips back from unnaturally white teeth, “Looks like we are finding your little ‘blessed child’. I would kill you, but the king wants you alive.”

            She stood, walking to the entrance, and as if being given a silent order two of the soldiers took Vasilica’s crippled form and imprisoned his wrists in front of him in iron shackles, the metal weighing him down painfully.

            Forced to walk and endure the climate, Vasilica trundled onwards. He remembered from earlier that their pursuers had horses, and wondered where they were. Perhaps the mountainside was to deadly for the long legged stallions they sported, and he almost snorted at the thought despite the circumstances. Shaggy ponies were far better suited to the Northern terrain, and it said a lot about the King’s pretentious self-indulgence that he would choose regal symbol over practicality.

            The man’s sharp eyes darted to the ground: to the uniform rocks and crushed thickets, the dirt soft from the night’s slurry. It didn’t take long to pinpoint the signs of Emil’s passing, even at the hurried pace he was being forced at. Nor did he miss the quite obvious fact that the boy had travelled in an odd, confusing manner, seemingly finding hidden paths down what appeared to be dangerous drops and slides, despite the boy’s blindness.

            And for once in his life, Vasilica didn’t know what was going on. Self-pity was out of his reach and despair smothering him like a blanket, and yet, when he sighted the subtle yet distinct sign of a single petalless mountain flower, it’s purple twins shivering in the breeze, a glimpse of hope still remained as Arthur made his presence known to his captured ally.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot to update today. I hope this chapter suffices ;D

The leaf in his fingers crumbled as he closed his fist, rubbing nimble fingers over the waste with a smile on his face. Running a tongue over the dust left behind, he took a moment to appreciate the dead taste before raising his eyes to his wife, younger by more than ten winters than he, observing her modest face with contempt.  
“I have word from Natalya,” the old man told her, “a crow arrived but this morning.”   
“And of what news, my sire?” The woman asked, eyes turned low, avoiding his searching gaze.   
“One of the witches has been captured, the other escaped. The boy… They have a trail. He should hope he can run, for he’ll need more hast than young legs bear to escape Natalya and her soldiers. But the witch alone can tell us much needed knowledge, after so many years, if we can make him sing.”  
“How do you plan to make him sing, my sire? Such a bearer of information would not speak freely. Such a loner has not many to threaten.” Her green eyes shone like emeralds in the dank hall of the castle, intelligence carefully concealed.   
“A loner feels all the more tenderly about those he chooses. We will catch the boy; then we hold the tool in these trying times.” The King explained.  
His wife sighed and glanced away. “All your life has been consumed by such desire to find this boy, these bearers of knowledge, and yet how, my sire, how plan you to halt the forthcomings? Is it not all in vain, or lies spun by those with malicious desires?”  
“You question me?” The man drew himself up proudly, “I have had enough of your presence today, woman. Leave.” He ordered, and shaken she did, fearing the man’s anger that changed like the tides.   
Left alone, the king reached into the folds of his clothing, drawing out a yellowed roll of parchment. While with everything else in life he handled with heavy, forceful hands, the mere roll of paper appeared to him as a treasure, a life in itself – worth more than life, since it’s words remained a constant reminder of his potential undoing or uplifting.   
“You warned me of such years ago, my dear. It cost you your life, a worthy price to pay. Now after all these years the power lays into my hands to halt the gods form leading this kingdom to its gruesome fate. No people prosper without a king; a kings is a god to those below him, and should act as such.”  
The man paused, stroking a calloused thumb over the parchment. It was silly, he supposed, to speak aloud as if the dead could hear. Their ears were either too full of earth to register the living, or being rewarded in Valhalla for a noble life.   
Deciding to stop speaking, the man was disturbed a mere two hours later, with the rude and abrupt entrance of a small cohort of soldiers he had sent out. The ones led by Natalya, though her absence from the group was immediately apparent. The king had no chance to ask of this though, since dragged in after the soldiers was a man – no, a creature – swathed in chains, heavy shackles on his wrists, secured tightly behind his back.   
His hair hung ratty and long in front of his face, unevenly cut by a personal dagger most likely, once a honeyed, strawberry blond but from months of toil having been reduced to a muddy brown. His unusual slanted eyes rose from the stone floor, rose to meet the unreadable glare of the King, who stood in front of his throne.   
“There is no need to announce one such as him,” the King ordered, as one of his soldiers opened her mouth to address him in the formal manner, “I am surprised to have him in my grasp so soon. Vasilica of the blood people.”  
“And yet you are more bloody thirsty than all of us combined,” Vasilica shot back, teeth gritted in a way that make his pronounced canines apparent.   
“Quiet!” The king ordered, a forceful bellow that brought even the defiant man before him to submission. Calming, he addressed on of his men, “What news of the other witch, and, for the sake of the gods, that boy.”  
‘My sire, it was ordered by Sir Natalya for us to bring this one here. She still seeks the boy, but when we parted we were making ground. He is alone and but a child; it will be easy to find him.”  
“Don’t underestimate such forces of evil,” the king seethed, “but alas, I trust Natalya. It will be her head she pays for her failure with, if that so happens, and the woman is more than aware of it.”  
“Yes, sire.”  
Descending towards the prisoner, the king crouched before him, reaching a hand under his chin and tilting the man’s head. “You can be rest assured, Vasilica, that whether sooner or later, you will speak eventually. You will confess everything. You have a choice to either spare yourself the suffering, or prolong your fate.”  
“I amn’t a coward such as yourself. Surely you are not as stupid as to assume I would betray my family!”  
The King considered being angered by the man’s resistance, but amusement overtook him and he guffawed at Vasilica’s words. “Family? What a pathetic concept. You are joined with a man – a lowly witch such as yourself – and that demon that disguises himself as a sickly child.  
“But it is of no matter, you will be taken to the dungeons. An interrogation will be arranged promptly, and perhaps you will have the company of your demon child very soon.”  
The prisoner was dragged away and the King brightened at the prospect of his largest threat being within the grasp of his most trusted warrior. Undoubtedly, he would force Vasilica to sing, and until he did he could only bask in his glee.   
A recently risen King of the south was to become a guest that afternoon. A man by the name of Vash Zwingli. The King considered the surname, sure of some hidden significance, but quickly dismissed the idea. It wasn’t as if the man was going to live long enough to ever pose a threat. 

Natalia sniffed the air. It was fresh, chilled by the altitude that, while shadowed by the mountains, was still far enough from sea level to send a thrilling chill to her bones. She tightened the cord holding her hair back, glad for her foresight to cut her fringe only recently, the silky tresses sufficiently denied the pleasure of hindering her vision.   
Like a native of the woods, her ears picked up every shake and quake of the undergrowth, ever song of the birds and chitter of rodents. For the most part, the partly frozen mud held little obvious clues as to the animals’ passing, which only made the human tracks, cutting through the forest like a gaping wound, all the more obvious.   
It was strange, like the boy was drunk. His path was unskilled and inconsistent, travelling towards a tree or a thicket until touching distance, at which point he waned, turned and picked out a new, hopefully clearer route.   
His misdirection made her pursuit all the easier. It was as if he were an animal – her prey – and the shackles in her pack was the bow.   
It wasn’t until midday that she caught sight of her prize. He was stumbling, evidently exhausted, yet diligently continuing toward wherever he was headed. ‘Not for much longer,’ Natalya thought, slightly amused. His determination was commendable though, and if it were any other situation she would have wished for him as an apprentice.   
But he was not a human. That the King had made clear. So the necessary precautions were due.   
Slipping her pack from her shoulders, she rest it down, ensuring it was hidden by the plant life, though who would be in the depths of the forest to steal it was beyond her. Slowly, careful to not make a sound, the woman drew a small throwing knife from her belt, stalking with precise footing, forward, towards her prey.   
The knife was let to fly, and it embedded itself in the trunk of a tree directly beside the boy’s head. He reeled away from it, stumbling back and turning his head left and right.  
“Don’t move, lest you wish for another to pierce your heart,” Natalya ordered, noting how the boy suddenly located her as she spoke. She was fully in sight, not five metres away, cloak tussling from the gentle breeze that somehow didn’t fit the mood.   
“Who are you?” He called out, voice only shaking once.   
“Sir Natalya of King Blathren. You are under my control now, and have no right to refuse.”  
“You are the one who has been chasing us all these months?” He asked, voice high and wavering.   
“It is a pleasure to meet you after all this time,” the woman grinned, “now uncloak and belt yourself. I don’t want you to bear any weapons or tools. It will be pointless to try to escape; you would only be killed.”  
“O-okay…” His hands fumbled at the clasp of the cloak, undoing it and letting the woollen material, carefully embroidered by Arthur, float to his feet. He then set to work at the knot of his belt, working the leather through the metal ring.   
Even Natalya’s trained eye didn’t notice the pouch of herbs being withdrawn from the bag at his hip, nor the whispered words leave his lips, but the next thing she knew there was a flash across her vision and a searing pain in her head. Disorientated, the woman forced her vision to make haste in clearing, scouring the clearing for her prisoner. All she saw was the branch of a beech tree snap back.   
Ignoring the now prominent headache she bore, she tore after the boy, catching sight of a flash of grey as he disappeared round another thicket.  
How had he gone from the stumbling, exhausted, ‘almost crashing into trees’ mess to something akin to a fleeing vixen in mere moments? The thought of the child escaping flared an anger in her blood, which spurred her on, darting round trees, leaping over roots, eyes ever fixated on the form of the boy who, despite his agility and nimble footing, had legs shorter than hers and muscles smaller than hers and his weak form let him down so, so much…  
It was almost immediate that forest became a larger clearing. Disorientated, she paused, seeing the boy had done the same, eyes appearing to search frantically, as if he hadn’t been fleeing from her, but running toward… Whatever was here. Natalya baited herself, tried in vain to force unwilling limbs forward to capture her prize, but she remained froze to the spot, her prey’s bewildering behaviour intriguing her.   
Sinking into the shadows, her keen eyes saw the sudden loss of purpose take over the boy’s form, as his shoulders slumped and he suddenly became small. Cautiously, he slowly made his way to a tree separated from the rest, the woman instantly making out two slumped, apparently sleeping men beneath it.   
The boy stopped in front of them, falling to his knees. A sightless hand reached out, patting the ground until it found a boot, drawing away as if in fear, before returning again, finding a leg attached.  
His exploration was enough to waken the man, who jolted as is struck by lightning, kicking out and striking the boy in the stomach, who cried out and doubled over. The other man stirred.  
“Who on Earth are you?” The man asked accusingly, straining against the bonds that attached him to the tree.   
“Are you with the king?” The boy asked. The man froze, expression akin to a mix of horror and bewilderment. He then hardened, anger creasing his brow.  
“I asked you who you were.”  
“Are you tied up?” The boy paused, “I think you are. Why...?” He asked, but it wasn’t really a question.   
He then moved to the other man, who was shifting between sleep and wakening. Reaching out a hand, the boy touched the man’s shoulder and froze, whether in horror or not Natalya couldn’t tell.   
His shaking hand trailed the man’s collarbone, his slim neck and up above his jaw, before cupping a cheek. “Lukas…” The boy breathed, so quiet even Natalya’s sharp ears struggled to pick it out.  
The man awakened instantly at his name, eyes opening wide, taking in the sight of the boy before him with disbelief.   
“E-Emil?” Emil nodded, eyes as wide as the other’s, “oh gods,” Lukas chocked, “you’re alive! You’re so much older, how… Why...?”  
“I don’t know,” Emil whimpered, then threw himself at the man without warning. The man’s arms were tied behind him, but he rested his head on top of the other’s, breathing in the scent of the boy’s white hair.   
“Lukas, what’s going on?” The other man asked, craning his neck to watch the two, “is that really baby Emil, all grown up? How long has it been?”  
It took the two a while to part from the embrace. “This is Matthias, who I told you about when you were younger,” Lukas explained.   
“Matthias who saved my life at birth?” Emil continued without missing a breath. Matthias grew sullen very quickly, eyes shadowing.  
“That was a long time ago, Emil, a lot of things have happened,” he said without further explanation.   
The three sat in a moments contemplation.   
“Emil, can you untie us?” Lukas asked. That was when Natalya decided to intervene, since one boy – even with inhuman powers – was far less of an opponent than with the assistance of two grown men.   
“Stop right there,” she ordered smoothly, “I’ll kill those men if you try to defy me again.”   
As she suspected, the words had an instant effect on Emil. He juddered, halting, then slowly turning toward the sound. It was then that it struck her: that boy used his ears far more than his eyes, that were always staring slightly off focus. That boy was blind – good at hiding it and functioning yes – but blind and easy prey when that could be exploited none the less.  
“Who are you?” The taller man, Matthias, glared.  
“I work for the king, and it is under his interest that this boy is captured. I have no interest in you.” She strode over. Emil kneeled helplessly in front of his brother, not facing her and not needing to, knowing that whatever unearthly sense that had led him to his lost brother would not give him similar aid in escaping without the man.   
Natalya seized his wrists, yanking his arms behind his back violently, forcing his head down to the mud as she encased his delicate arms in the contrastingly crude shackles. She drowned out Lukas’ shouting and Matthias’ struggling and she spun Emil’s suddenly defenceless body towards her. His eyes were an eerie blank stare, a muted purple that deepened if it caught the light in the right way. They unsettled her, so she pushed him in away from the men, towards the direction she came.   
“Stop, please! Take me with you; me instead of him, or both of us! Just… Don’t take him away again!” Lukas pleased desperately. The woman simply turned and gave him a cold glare.   
“I was only ordered to take the boy.” 

“Let me go!” Lukas snarled at the short man in front of him, writhing in his bonds, barely feeling the blood that covered his hands as the rope cut into his wrists. His legs splayed without coordination, causing his captor to take a step back in self-preservation.   
“You have to listen- “  
“No! You must have heard that woman and that boy were here barely moments ago. Why did you not confront them? I have to get to them!”  
“We can’t let you go…”  
“We are no danger,” Lukas snarled, “we will follow them and you will never hear from us again. Let us go!”  
“Lukas, calm down,” Matthias tried in vain to calm the man out of fear of their captor’s anger.   
“I can’t calm down,” Lukas said, but quieter, chest heaving with the effort of his struggle, brow in a seemingly permanent crease, “my brother…”  
The man standing in front of him seemed to soften as Lukas relaxed. Crouching down again, and looking at Lukas with surprising honesty he said, “if you calm down and let us speak to you, time will be hastened to your release. But you must understand we cannot simply free you; the gods have warned us of your passing and led me to you.”  
He smiled then, sorrowfully, apologetically, the red clay coating his face cracking slightly with the movement. Lukas could sense none of the former malice, and, being in such a helpless situation, finally relaxed as much as was possible.  
“I’ll listen.”  
“Good! Now, Ber, they have agreed to hear us out.”  
The larger of the two emerged from the shelter, his face fresh of the clay that it had been caked in, leaving the sharp, stern face of a young man with glaring eyes and strong jaw.   
“Am glad they trust you enough,” he observed simply.  
“Yes, of course. Anyway, about you two. You see, Ber and I, call me Tino, are recludes from society. We prefer to live out of the reach of the bonds and laws of state, and being in nature, our magic is enhanced here. Call us hermits if you like, but hermits living together so I’m not sure…”  
“The prisoners, Tino,” Ber reminded the man, who had looked as if he was about to go off on a tangent.   
“Oh sorry! Living here for many winters has given me a connection with this forest achieved only usually by animals. The trees tell me things; their roots lie farther than you would imagine, and by nature is also a way for the gods to contact humans though it is a dying art. Years ago, we sensed a disturbance in the energy flows of the land, as if a new plague was forthcoming, yet nothing has happened but the energy growing more stagnant year by year.   
“Ber finally caved and went to the nearest town to see if it was humans affecting the land, and he brought back to me tales of the king’s wrath. It seems, forgive me for the phrasing, that his mind has become ill; he has been driven mad by prophecy and legend. They tell of a boy-”  
“Emil. The King seeks Emil, my brother, the boy who was here not long ago.”  
Tino gave him a strange look, but continued, “indeed, a boy who may cause the end of the world, or who may save humanity from itself. A boy born fifteen years ago… It is him causing such disturbances.”  
“He has done nothing wrong!” Lukas protested.  
“You don’t have to do anything wrong for wrong things to be done because of you,” Tino voiced wisely.   
“So why did you kidnap us?” Matthias asked finally.   
“The forest told of two men tied in with such great amounts of spiritual energy that their very existences shifted the spectrum of nature’s cycle. You two. It isn’t until we saw into your minds and pasts that we finally understood, though Lukas, it is clear you have a greater control of magic than most. And Matthias… Coming from such a past of betrayal and murder, I believe the gods have assigned us the duty to watch over you – both of you.”   
“If you watch over us, does that mean you are going to prevent me from following my brother,” Lukas asked.  
Tino’s eyes widened in horror, “of course not! Why, it would be going against the will of the land for such powers, and the connection of blood, to be separated. But… We will not prevail against such systematic forces of evil without a plan. You are lucky that Berwald and I had already planned on travelling to the castle the king is currently staying at; I have contact with a slave at the palace who has agreed to give us information, to let us stay. Your brother is most likely being taken there.”  
“But… Why?” Matthias asked him, “what does ‘information’ achieve?”  
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that yet. But we have connections, and so long as you stay with us we will make sure that your brother is safe. We’ll make sure you are reunited, Lukas.”  
The thin man, usually cold to most others, softened under the caring expression that shone through even the clay caked face. “Thank you,” he said, and for once it was truly whole hearted. Even Matthias, who was distrusting of most strangers, seemed to accept that if Lukas trusted them, they meant no harm.  
“So… Can you untie us now?” Matthias prompted.  
“As long as we have your word that you will stay with us,” Tino said and Lukas nodded, “then of course!”  
Berwald, the tall man who had been standing silently for the most part, crouched down by Matthias and leaned close, squinting as his calloused fingers worked the knots. Tino did the same for Lukas, and the two were soon standing on shaky legs, rolling their aching shoulders tenderly. Lukas circled his wrist with an icy hand.   
The day had already drawn to an end. All that was left of the sun was a glow beyond the trees, the moon low in the sky but sufficiently lighting the clearing. While Tino went to wash his face from the clay, Berwald led the two to the small shelter; a round house, sturdily built, with a tapered hole in the centre to allow the fire’s smoke to escape. The thick, branchy walls, insulated with leaves and bracken trapped the heat, and while the two would deny it, sitting close in the cramped space allowed them to share their much needed heat.   
Tino returned with a fresh face, pale and round and soft, almost motherly but with a hardness hidden in the set of his jaw, the tightness of his lips, that told of more power than a feminine physique let on.   
Lukas turned to the two men, who had taken a seat opposite to he and Matthias. Tino was stirring a soup or stew in some sort in a cauldron over the fire.  
“When can we leave to follow my brother?” He asked, attempting to still his anxiously quaking hands.   
“It’s a short journey’s walk – one day, maybe two at the most. Though we’ll travel at night; much of it is beyond the protection of the forests,” Berwald answered.  
“We’ll spend tomorrow preparing, and leave at sun down,” Tino continued. “Please, understand that we would not be able to catch up with that woman. I know her sort, and the training her kind receives is beyond even the strictest of soldiers, so she’ll move quickly.”  
Matthias shook his head abruptly, half in disagreement, half in a vain attempt to clear his mind of confusion. Placing a hand on the other man’s knee, Lukas shot him a cold glance that was so characteristic of him that it was almost reassuring.   
“My guests, you must be hungry!” Tino exclaimed, “come, eat, you can trust us. We’re on your side,” he reached across the fire to Lukas, “this is an upcoming war, my friend, and I am sorry your brother is caught amidst it. But I can assure you, more power is on our side that you realise.”


End file.
